Third in line, sometimes second, that was where he liked to walk in the squad order. When it was really bad, backs to the wall, seemingly endless numbers of Orks to the fore he would step out in front, but luckily this wasn't one of those times and he nervously toyed with the activation stud of his chainsword while he waited for the Captain's orders. He glanced over at Fozaker, the zealot was busy muttering prayers and fingering his Aquila, he looked the other way to see his squad-mates. Doc had the kid sitting on an overturned food crate, he was giving him some sodium tabs to keep Emil from puking anymore. "That's the trouble with ya young welps, all ya mama's milk curdles in ya belly when the fight gets rough."
Doc tried not to laugh at Krabich's jibe, but he could see the grin on the usually dour medic, impossibly Emil's face seemed to sour even more. "If ya was anymore green, I'd think you was one of them Ork runts." The young Fusilier stood quickly before swaying a little and being grabbed by Doc. "Eh, ya know Krabich don't mean it kid. Sit, drink some water." Emil glared at the two older men before complying, he grudgingly took the offered canteen of water from the medic.
He shifted his attentions to the barely audible conversation between the Captain and the Pioneer squad leader. He didn't like the way things had turned out, he had nose for staying alive, his record read like a list of the Ork's greatest hits, through it all he'd stayed in one piece. He wasn't heroic, he wasn't pious, even now he could remember the beatings his gran had given him when he would skip sermons, or steal from the offering box in the local chapel, but despite having a knack for getting himself into scrapes he was even better at coming out of the other side intact. He was handy with a chainsword and he hated the Orks, that combo had earned him a prestigious position in the Fusiliers, standard bearer, there were young men who looked at him with awe when he stood the line with them, unflinching, his pennant flapping in the breeze.
He knew the truth of it though, chance, not a man in this building, not a man in the Fusiliers was a master of his own fate, nor were they as the Ministorum insisted, instruments in the Emperor's divine plan for humanity. He'd seen too many of his comrades cut down unexpectedly, men who were more able soldiers than himself had died in ugly horrible ways inches from him and he'd walked away. No God-Emperor would allow that, the truth was too terrifying for most and so they accepted that all of this suffering and death must be preordained, every action and consequence had purpose. "Grox-shit."
"Krabich!" He looked up startled, they were all looking at him, the Captain stared at him in a way that only a man who'd clawed his way through the hell of this war and still held true faith could. "Care to explain exactly why you think the plan is grox-shit?" He was caught flatfooted, he hadn't realized he'd said that last bit out loud, he hadn't realized the Captain had started a field-briefing while his thoughts had wandered. "Uh... sorry sah, I meant to keep that gem to me self, guess it slipped out."
Captain Zitzkazan scowled at him, then grimmaced, before chuckilng, "You are right, the plan is grox-shit. Unfortunately it is all we have to go on. We have been blessed thus far to suffer no casualties against the seemingly endless numbers of Ork runts, but now we have reached the end of these hab-blocks and once the Tauroxes navigate the roadblocks we will have to move at speed over open ground towards the last known location of Sergeant Valrak's Sentinel." He nodded, "Guess it's like my gran used to say, out of the pan and into the fire."
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